Hi °C | Lo °C SUNDAY starts badly; you nearly break your neck over the battered high-heels tossed just inside the utility room door.
You almost lose your balance a second time on the black jacket with the fancy glitter bars on the shoulders, the lacy top, and the black leggings, all of which have been flung in the approximate direction of the laundry bin.
Wolverine.
Everything bar the shoes is covered with a thick gloopy whitish mixture, which, Fifteen informs you lugubriously when he happens upon the scene, is flour-and-water.
Flour and water?
You're baffled.
Yeh, grunts Fifteen, who doesn't explain anything these days, and like the Cheshire Cat in 'Alice in Wonderland', disappears, leaving only a grin behind.
When she finally detaches herself from her tangled and stuffy boudoir, you notice Wolverine's long hair is also matted with the stuff.
"Flour-and-water," she sighs in response to your pointed stare.
"Going for a shower now, okay?"
You inquire what time she got in last night.
Well, like, Andrew's Mum was s'posed to collect them at 2am but Andrew's friend fell and broke his nose and they had to call the ambulance, so Andrew and his mother and Wolverine had to wait with him until it came.
Was he drunk, you inquire.
"A-course not," Wolverine says virtuously.
"Gawd, Ma, it was an accident. He just tripped, like."
Then they went back to Andrew's and Andrew's Mum, who is (unlike you) totally sound, gave them pizza and drove Wolverine home.
"So you didn't get in till nearly four am?" you inquire.
Wolverine doesn't answer.
You stare at your daughter.
"I'm 18," she says, wisely deciding not to add the usual rider about being able to do whatever she wants.
Yes, you think, 18; too old to be still in school.
You did your Leaving Certificate at 16, when you were still relatively manageable.
Eighteen is not a manageable age; at least not in Wolverine-land.
Instead of phasing out the Junior Certificate exam, you think, the government should be abolishing Transition Year, which to your mind, has a lot to answer for.
One of your friends enrolled her kids in a school where TY was optional and, surprise, they all did extremely well without having to spend a year learning yoga and painting Christmas murals on the windows of the local old folks' home.
You say this to Wolverine, who rolls her eyes impatiently.
"Too late for me," she quips and whisks into the bathroom to liberate your favourite body lotion and shampoo from their hiding places beneath the towels.
You can say that again, you think glumly.
Irish Independent
